Sometimes I wish
This pant dries slower
Around this canvas
That curses my name,
Every drag of smoke
That reaches into my subconscious
Meets my hand
To pen
To ink
To this blank idea,
I guess this is all i got
I curse the lords name
Throwing the pen
Against this yellow wallpaper,
Depression is only called
To the ones who can see
The writing on the walls,
Left in blood red,
Words that make me a victim
Of labeling what it means
To be a victim.
This pen sounds like my mother,
White powder filled with innocent memories
Stick to the keys
She could always conduct
The simplest symphonies
The sting to her words
Wrap the vacuum cord around my neck.
Terrorist apart of the self doubt group called my insecurities
Swing at me like a pinata,
Crucified to my old drafts
Of this blank canvas,
I scream enough I say,
My words cast a light
Through the pen
Shattering this oddly warmer room
I pick up the pen
And write on this canvas
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 10:12 PM UTC
Sometimes I wish
This pant dries slower
Around this canvas
That curses my name,
Every drag of smoke
That reaches into my subconscious
Meets my hand
To pen
To ink
To this blank idea,
I guess this is all i got
I curse the lords name
Throwing the pen
Against this yellow wallpaper,
Depression is only called
To the ones who can see
The writing on the walls,
Left in blood red,
Words that make me a victim
Of labeling what it means
To be a victim.
This pen sounds like my mother,
White powder filled with innocent memories
Stick to the keys
She could always conduct
The simplest symphonies
The sting to her words
Wrap the vacuum cord around my neck.
Terrorist apart of the self doubt group called my insecurities
Swing at me like a pinata,
Crucified to my old drafts
Of this blank canvas,
I scream enough I say,
My words cast a light
Through the pen
Shattering this oddly warmer room
I pick up the pen
And write on this canvas
Request permission to use this poem